


Unresponsive

by AlwaysJohn



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: All tags are mild, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, nothing heavy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-07
Updated: 2019-01-07
Packaged: 2019-10-06 09:21:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17342705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlwaysJohn/pseuds/AlwaysJohn
Summary: “If a picture paints a thousand words, then why can’t I paint you?” tumbled as an agonised whisper from John's lips, the melody following, curling itself around the lyrics in his head.





	Unresponsive

John Watson stood at the edge of a field somewhere in Bristol, although they’d driven so far and wide he couldn’t be certain he was still in Bristol, taking notes from a local police detective who droned on..and on..about clues he’d discovered and his opinion regarding the disappearance of a local woman. 

John was pretty sure the clues would be worthless to the world’s only consulting detective, and so beneath Sherlock’s genius it was rated a minus three. As far as John was concerned, it was a wasted trip, but they hadn’t had a case in a while and Sherlock was ready to put another few holes in Mrs. Hudson’s wall. John was no genius, but he knew Sherlock’s methods and had already deduced that the woman left with another man. 

It was as he tucked his notes and pen into his messenger bag, and opened the door to the police car that the distinctive sound of a helicopter reached him. When it appeared that it was about to land nearby, John leaned against the car to watch, raising a hand to shade his eyes from the glare of the intermittent sunlight.

Noticing at once that it wasn’t air force, which he was told, trained pilots in the area for flights into and out of Afghanistan and Iraq, a familiar queasiness rose in his stomach.

As the helicopter settled in the field adjacent to the muddy, rutted path that passed for a road on which he stood, and the rotors slowed, the door opened and a man stepped out, approaching at a run. 

“Dr Watson? Dr John Watson?”

“Yes, what’s wrong?”

“There’s been an accident and you’re needed at King’s College Hospital.”

“Who’s been injured?” Dr John Watson asked in a calm, professional tone. John Watson’s stomach took a dive to his toes. 

“I’ve been instructed-”

“Did Mycroft Holmes send you?”

“Yes, sir. I’ve been instructed to tell you that his brother has been injured and I’m to take you directly to hospital.”

John’s heart dropped to his toes. “How bad is it?”

“I wasn’t given any information, sir, sorry. We need to go now, sir.”

“All right.” He raised a hand to the detective. “We’ll be in touch.”

The man nodded, his mouth poised as if to speak, but in the end, said nothing.

John sprinted alongside the co-pilot, boarding quickly and buckling in as the rotors powered up again, but the pilot didn’t lift off until John pulled the headset over his ears, placing the mouthpiece along his jaw.

“We’ll be in the air about forty minutes, Dr Watson.”

John winced at the headset volume, but nodded his understanding. “Call me John,” he said out of habit, then realised he’d spoken too softly to be heard.

Settling into the seat did little to ease the dread climbing up his back. Nothing to do but stare out the window, and worry. He did both with maximum effort.

John checked his watch only ten minutes later. The remaining twenty minutes stretched out before him like an eternity weighing on his shoulders. 

Somewhere along the way, he turned inward, as he did when bad things happened, to thoughts of Sherlock, the man he loved more than his own life. 

“If a picture paints a thousand words, then why can’t I paint you?” tumbled as an agonised whisper from John lips, the melody following, curling itself around the lyrics in his head. 

In one swift motion, John pulled his phone from his jacket pocket, opening the document he’d saved just that morning. “You have to be okay, Sherlock. I have to tell you about this song I found. It says everything I’ve ever wanted to say to you. Please be all right. Please.”

“Entering London air space, Dr Watson.”

“Right, thanks, he whispered into the microphone.” 

Moments later, John recognised the sprawling King’s College Hospital in the near distance and the helipad atop the Ruskin Wing. Sitting up straight in his seat, he realised the pilot was about to set down at the hospital.

“We’re not an emergency ambulance. You can’t land here,” John shouted his alarm through the microphone.

“Mr Holmes cleared us for a three minute stop, just long enough to let you off and clear the landing pad.”

“Of course he did,” John shouted, shaking his head when the pilot gave him a thumbs up and a grin. 

Numb with worry by the time they touched down with barely a jostle, John thanked the pilots, hurried across the helipad to the stairs to be out of the way when they lifted off. Just outside the alcove entrance below, Mycroft awaited him. 

“John, step inside, please.”

“Mycroft, how bad?”

“I’ll brief you as we walk.”

John nodded, silent, afraid his voice would fail him. 

“Sherlock’s cab was involved in a rear end shunt by a small lorry or more precisely an LGV on Marylebone. The cab driver said Sherlock was thrown rather forcibly against the partition.”

“So, a concussion, then?”

“No, ah, here we are.” 

John reached for the door handle, but Mycroft stayed his hand. 

“John.”

John waited as Mycroft moved a bit closer, lowering his head as if to transfer confidential information. His proximity would intimidate anyone else, but John stood his ground.

“Did you and Sherlock have a..domestic?”

John detected a momentary displeased look flit across Mycroft’s face at his use of what he considered a ordinary term beneath his station.

“I could be wrong, but I think that’s none of your business.”

“It could be.”

John would not be put off by Mycroft’s mocking usage of a long ago conversation. There had to be a point, Mycroft had never not had a point to anything he said. John indulged him for a moment longer.

“It really couldn’t.”

Mycroft raised a condescending eyebrow so reminiscent of his younger brother, then turned away to step into the trauma unit.

“John, wait, please.”

John huffed his impatience; he needed to see Sherlock.

“Apologies. Sherlock’s doctor will tell you that Sherlock is unresponsive. If you argued, my brother...I have every reason to believe that he is lost in his Mind Palace because he refuses to acknowledge that he is afraid that you-”

“That’s crazy. Yes, we argued, I didn’t want to go to Bristol and I probably said some things that he misunderstood, but I’m here and I am not going anywhere.” John shook his head, drew in a steadying breath, releasing it in a frustrated huff. “And we both know that what you’re saying is entirely possible.”

Mycroft sighed. It was uncharacteristic of him, but the flash of relief in his eyes before he averted his gaze, was not lost on John.

John held his breath and pushed open the door. 

***

The moment the two men stepped into the room, the young doctor, obviously out of his depth, as were even the most experienced of medical personnel when it concerned Sherlock Holmes, descended upon Mycroft.

“Despite signs to the contrary, your brother is unresponsive. Every test is negative, his brain function normal. He has minor contusions and abrasions, Mr Holmes. There is no valid reason for your brother’s condition.”

“Dr, my brother has a valid reason for everything he does, even when the validity of it is not logical to the rest of us.” 

“Perhaps if you spoke to him, encouraged him, your voice might draw him out.”

“I assure you, Dr, where my brother has gone, there is but one person who can reach him.”

As John quietly approached the bed on which Sherlock lay, his keen doctor’s eye noticed only a small bruise at the curve of his cheekbone. He might have just been sleeping except for the rapid movement beneath his eyelids and the slightly elevated heart rate on the monitor next to the bed. Oxygen saturation was within normal range. 

“Drama queen,” John whispered with barely a breath. Turning toward Mycroft, he inclined his head to the door.

Mycroft nodded assent, quickly guiding the young doctor to the door.

“Who is that man, Mr Holmes, why is he here, and why are you allowing him to be alone with your brother?”

“That man is Dr John Watson.”

John grinned, watching the door close behind the two men.

‘He does love to be dramatic. Well, thank God you’re above all that.’ John remembered, almost fondly.

Rather than sit in an uncomfortable bedside chair, John lowered the side rail to sit on the edge of the bed. Holding Sherlock’s palm against his own, he feathered tiny circles with his thumb over the pale skin, and with his touch, Sherlock’s heart rate stabilised.

“There’s a good lad.”

Sherlock’s hand lay limp within John’s fingers, his eyes still fluttering wildly beneath closed eyelids. Suddenly, John knew that Mycroft’s theory was correct.

“Your brother thinks you are lost in your Mind Palace. Are you lost, Sherlock?”

Resting his free hand along Sherlock’s cheek, John hoped that his touch would reach him.

“Sherlock? I’m sorry I wasn’t there to protect you, but I’m here now. You’re going to be all right, I promise.”

John glanced over his shoulder to the door, and back again. “Shh, don’t tell anyone, but we’re alone and I’m going to kiss you now.” He did just that.

Pulling back from the tender kiss, John watched for any sign of recognition. Disappointment rested heavily on his shoulders. 

“Find me, Sherlock. I know you can, love. I’m not going anywhere. I’ll be right here.”

So intense was his study of Sherlock’s face, awaiting any change for the better, he startled at the settling of a firm hand on his shoulder.

“John?” Mycroft whispered.

John shook his head slowly. “Nothing yet. He must be deep inside his Mind Palace.”

“Indeed. Even as a child he had a superior memory, frighteningly so at times. Some days he’d disappear inside himself for hours at a time. Mummy was cross with him when he ignored her until she understood that it was his safe place, a small niche where he could put his world to right.”

“I remember Sherlock told me that sometimes he didn’t speak for days and asked if that would bother me. It seems like so long ago now.”

“Not so long ago, John. He cares for you, more than he realises, and that is what will bring him back to you. I have every confidence.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“When it concerns my brother, I am rarely wrong.”

John had no response to that. After a moment of heavy silence, Mycroft stepped to the door.

“I won’t be far, John, if you need me.”

John nodded absently, at once pleased that Mycroft trusted him, but guilty for taking away from him the care of his only sibling. He couldn’t think about that at the moment, Sherlock needed him.

For a few moments, Mycroft held the door ajar as he demanded that his brother not be disturbed. “You will monitor his vital statistics from the nurse station. John Watson is a fine doctor, my brother is in his care. That’s enough to be going on with, don’t you think?”

The door closed a bit more, but still open enough for John to enjoy Mycroft’s final threat. “And do place a do not disturb sign on the door, will you? Don’t reply, just look frightened and scuttle.”

Grinning wickedly, John allowed that Mycroft was a good one to have around...on occasion. When the British Government turned off the overhead lights in the room, leaving them to bathe in the softer glow from behind the bed, John typed a quick thank you text.

Once certain the door was closed and they were alone, he toed out of his shoes and tucked himself against Sherlock’s side, and his cheek pressed against a much loved collarbone. Pressing a gentle kiss to his jaw, a gesture Sherlock never failed to lean into, just not this time, John sighed. 

“Sherlock, I forgive you for breaking your promise to never go where I can’t follow. I forgive you because I know you are safe where you are, just stay away from that dungeon you told me about, yeah?”

Tugging his phone from his back pocket, John opened the file. With Sherlock a sort of captive audience, there was no time like that present moment.

“I’m going to read the lyrics of a song to you and I want you to pay close attention because right now you need to know how much you mean to me.”

In the glow from the phone, Sherlock might have been been sleeping, but the rumple between his brows and the constant rapid eye movement, John knew there was much going on in the depths of that genius mind. 

John snuggled in closer still, pressing his forehead against Sherlock’s neck, but when there was no soft, comforting hum in response, John began to read.

“If a picture paints a thousand words, then why can’t I paint you? The words will never show the you I’ve come to know. If a face could launch a thousand ships, then where am I to go? There’s no one home but you, you’re all that’s left me, too.”

John placed the phone on Sherlock’s chest so he could lay a finger across those precious lips. 

“And when my love for life is running dry, you come and pour yourself on me...I don’t have to read that part, Sherlock, because you, well, you know what that means to me. You see me, my love, and that is more important to me than anything else.”

Picking up the phone again, John continued...

“If a man could be two places at one time, I’d be with you. Tomorrow and today, beside you all the way. If the world should stop revolving, spinning slowly down to die, I’d spend the end with you, and when the world was through, then one by one the stars would all go out, then you and I would simply fly away.” 

John didn’t bother to wipe away his own overflowing tears. Sliding the phone beneath the pillow, he lay his arm across Sherlock’s chest and over his shoulder. He hadn’t felt alone for an age. He felt it now.

“Alone doesn’t protect me, Sherlock. You do.”

For a time John stared at nothing in particular, until he could no longer resist the pull of sleep.

“I’m going to have a bit of a kip now, Sherlock,” John mumbled as sleep overtook him. “Wake me when you’re back...”

***

Lost

Alone

John

Have to get back to John. He worries when I’m gone too long.

What is it? That sound. A voice, I know that voice. John’s voice.

He’s guiding me. He’s reading to me. I can’t hear the words from here. I have to find him. John is waiting. I need him, no, we need each other. 

Endless hallways, all the rooms are dark now. Follow the hallway. Closer. There, in the near distance. A door. It opens easily. I move past it, there, in the dim light, moored to my side, my protector John, sleeps.

***

John woke slowly, aware at once of Sherlock’s hand resting over his head. Tilting his head just enough to focus on the much loved, beautiful face, soft blue-green eyes gazed back at him. 

Tears brimmed in his eyes. “You found your way.”

A tiny smile lifted the corner of his mouth. “I did, with your guidance.” 

“I read to you.”

“I heard you, your voice permeated my mind; your essence was palpable, everywhere. And the words...” 

“Not mine, but...”

“Yours now, in my heart.”

“And mine.”

John lifted his chin as Sherlock sought his mouth. They kissed, long and soft, as though after a long time apart. 

“How are you feeling?”

“A bit sore. There was no concussion?”

“No head trauma at all according to your doctor. And just this tiny little bruise...right...here.” John kissed his cheekbone.

Sherlock raised a questioning eyebrow...and there was that tiny smirk, John so loved. 

“Tender care, John, tender care. Nothing you, home and hearth won’t cure.”

“It’s still dark, no shift change for a few more hours. Do we dare?”

Sherlock grinned like the madman John thought him to be. “Let’s.”

“All right.”

John pulled on his shoes and gathered their belongings while Sherlock dressed in the dim light. Sherlock opened the door just enough to peer into the corridor in both directions.

“Clear. Ready?”

“Right behind you.”

“No, John,” Sherlock whispered, closing the door for a moment longer to steal a kiss. “At my side. Always.”

Breathless when Sherlock pulled back, John pressed their foreheads together until his heart settled into a more normal rhythm.

“Always.”

They slipped out, side by side, hand in hand.

John paused at the lift doors, Sherlock shook his head. “Stairs,” he whispered against John’s ear. “Less chance of being caught out.”

“Right.”

Inside the stairwell, John glanced at the number on the back side of the door. “Are you strong enough for five flights down?”

“Strong enough alone, unstoppable together.”

“That we are.”

John tried to lead the way down, perhaps a bit afraid that Sherlock might falter, and he’d need to break his fall. “No, John. By my side, remember?”

“Yes, I remember.”

When they reached level three, all was well. It was Sherlock who broke the silence first.

“So, John, how long did it take you to get here from Bristol?”

“Mycroft sent a helicopter for me. We landed on the roof.”

“So, forty minutes. Only my brother...”

Stopping on the second floor landing, Sherlock dropped his forehead to John’s shoulder, his body shaking. 

John grasped him at the shoulders. “All right? Sit down?”

The moment Sherlock lifted his head, John realised he was laughing.

“Panic always brings out the best...sentiment in my brother.” Sherlock chuckled, reaching for the door handle. “If our luck holds, we won’t set off an alarm.”

“If our luck holds, Sherlock, your brother will have a car waiting for us so you won’t have to hail a cab.”

Silence met them when the door opened and they stepped outside to the open door of a Mycroft-ordered car.

John grinned when Sherlock took his hand. “Extraordinary.”

Sherlock curled an arm around him, pulling him close. John leaned into him, grateful for his warmth and comfort.

“Yes, you are, John Watson.”

**Author's Note:**

> LGV: Large Goods Vehicle
> 
> Fun Fact: Did you know that in British writing, both the titles Dr and Mr have no period after them? Lesson learned quite accidentally.
> 
> “If” lyrics by David Gates (Bread)


End file.
